


Build

by prettylittlefears82



Series: Interwoven [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:22:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettylittlefears82/pseuds/prettylittlefears82
Summary: Bucky and Steve built their lives from the ground up. They explore artistry, and how:***"The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb." - Unknown (Origin debated)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Mentioned Steve Rogers/Peggy Carter
Series: Interwoven [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2143209
Kudos: 1





	Build

**Author's Note:**

> Also: Me building this little world before I tear it apart :)

Stretched fabric is to the left, woven with plain weave and tossed to the side as Bucky strains his focus on the panels of wood in front of him. Dark brown scales the pieces like the tree branches they came from, intertwining to create a beautiful surface that'll unfortunately be hidden by the fabric.

While his workplace certainly looks like a mess - screws and wood and torn fabric all over - he know where everything is. Can't afford not to, really.

When he does make use of all he parts and scraps, the canvas goes to Steve, who works his own magic before it's sold to some person. It's how they make their living; painting, working, talking. This is just the woodshop though. Eventually, the canvas will be made, and sent over to Steve, maybe then left unfinished for a few months either on the floor, or hung on the slabs of wood encasing the attic.

Bucky’s the handyman. Steve’s the artist. _It works_.

They’ve been going at it for years now, ever since they were left to fend for themselves, and well - you make do with what you’re good at. It’s the only thing you can do.

They're just two men tied not by blood, but a meaningful connection built on exactly the opposite. Of loving each other through thick and thin, with no obligation to stick around. Their team effort is one that has kept them blissfully alive. 

He clears out the ground (preferring to work there over a table) and plucks long pieces from the pile of fresh lumber.

They travel a lot as well, taking up odd jobs on the side as Steve takes up commissions. But today, they’re back in Brooklyn, in the charming, tiny flat they call home. He makes a note to join the other residents up on the roof for a few beers, remembering that Steve doesn’t very much like the prospect of getting drunk on the roof, but he won’t be here for a few days anyway - not after this morning. 

The wood is lined up in a neat right angle to make a corner, Bucky flipping it every which way to make sure the sides are in line before grabbing a rough nail from the side.

He’s glad to be back to building smaller canvases now. Prior to his current project (a group of four matching to be hung on one of their neighbors’ walls after flowers are emblazoned) he’d built the ones for Steve’s newest clients, an apparent family of very, very wealthy four. There was four, so Steve's definitely got his work cut out for him. He can only imagine the size of the wall they’d put it on, and the home itself. Elites: so detached from the world that instead of working to leave their children a better life - they already have that - they leave them exaggerated pictures of themselves. And terrible ones too, painted by the likes of them, children growing up convinced they have the utmost talent, and bred into success with their mediocrity.

Bucky almost laughs, brushing off the scrappy side of one piece that he’d noticed in his careful scrutiny of it. He settles for a small smile instead. Steve and the word "mediocre" have no business even being in the same sentence. He's far from it.

It’s barely light outside, but Steve’s already spent hours out making himself decent, probably in part because of him decidedly not coming back the night before for preparation. Wondering where he was, a certain compelling Brit comes to mind and Bucky settles the case pretty quickly. Steve’s in the corner now, kneeling at a tiny mirror he’d managed to snag their last time in Pennsylvania.

He makes haste of throwing down the long nail before standing and wiping his hands on his brown, worn, wool trousers.

“Stevie!” he says walking across from their ‘great room’ (a tiny open space just across from the kitchen, which they call that in jest, mocking the a rude stateswoman in that small way, a little save of their dignity) to the wall beside the washroom door as he checks his watch. A few minutes till seven, when he’s supposed to leave for upstate. He kneels down, hand resting on the hastily painted brick wall as he eyes the bowtie Steve’s wearing down. “If you wanna catch breakfast before you go,” he swats the man’s large hands away from the scarf, “you’re gonna have to be quicker about this.” He quickly ties the fabric he’d loaned to his friend himself (along with the suit), tucking the ends into his coat as he catches Steve still looking at himself in the mirror, legs crossed as he sits in the place he’s made for himself on the floor. Another note: he needs to see about finally hanging the mirror up, its circular, carved frame meant to be eye length on a wall, not on the floor leaning on it.

Steve's hair is brushed back nicely, the man looking just dapper this morning. He acts the part too, definitely, chin raised high and jaw line out for show.

When he’s done, Steve smiles at him and thanks him, giving him a pat on the back as he stands to full height. It’s quite amazing how tall he’d grown in his teens, managing to rid himself of the ‘shrimp’ title he’d donned in elementary. You see, the school teachers didn’t make it easier for him, deciding to continue the tradition of marking heights on the wall of the single room they taught in. Painting over it at the end of their childhood - that was the graduation ceremony. And Bucky loved watching Steve’s smug grin as he stared at six feet of markings before wiping them from existence, the only thing left where he’s at now. 

And here he is standing above him, flaunting his stature as he stands pin straight. He feels a swell of affection for this kid whose grown up to become such a wonderful man. “How do I look?” Steve asks, tugging down the tail ends of his coat as Bucky sits on the worn unfinished pine floor, one arm strung over his propped up knee.

“You’ll fit right in.”

“That’s the goal,” the other man smirks, sticking his thumbs behind the many buttons adorning his pants.

Placing his hands as springs on the ground, Bucky propels himself upward, feeling the tail-ends of his long strands of hair swinging with the force, and brushing his neck softly. He stands in front of Steve. “Hey lighten up,” Bucky fluffs some of his hair out of its almost annoying neatness, “you’re gonna make a fine impression.” There’s no way he could do what he loves in front of someone and not, but the words are assuring all the same. 

Bucky tucks his shirt in his trousers, smoothing the creases of the button down at his chest before tossing on a light outer coat. He follows dutifully behind Steve, tugging on his boots as the man grabs his dress shoes and tucks the ends of his pants in the back tastefully. They set toward their door, making sure all Steve’s supplies and toiletries are packed well for 7 a.m. exactly, when he’s off to the hills.

Steve smooths his hair back down and grabs a cap while Bucky ties his hair back with a ribbon. Then they exit.

* * *

“Hey,” he taps his friend's arm as they walk through the residential area, not even sure he can feel it through all the layers as Steve stares straight ahead, squinting so that he can see past sparse morning fog. “You never told me where exactly you were off to.”

He kicks a rock in front of him, watching it roll down cobblestone and to the sidewalk where it gets stuck between the walk and the road.

“Upstate. The _rolling_ _hills,”_ he jokes, stretching his arms out, signifying lots of room. (That they obviously don’t have here, children pushing each other in a cart down the slope of the road barging at them just moments later, though they’re thankfully able to dodge, stepping on the sidewalk.) “They run the factory uptown: the Udakus.”

Bucky’s skeptical, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “You mean...the one with the machinery?” As Steve nods, he pats the other man on the back excitedly. “That’s big time, Steve! How’d you even manage to get to them?” He shields his eyes from sun and fog with the same hand as he spots the small breakfast on the corner, among a dentistry on one side and the Martinellis' adjoining boarding house, completing their quaint bed & breakfast. 

He doesn't particularly like the family, or the smog they fill New York with, but he can respect them. Plus, where money's involved, he'll muster all the respect in the world.

Steve gets that smile again, and Bucky knows exactly who put in a good word for him. His friend confirms his suspicions. “Pegs.”

Bucky snorts. “Mingling with the higher ups, you are,” he takes his hands out of his pockets as they near the storefront. He knows he really isn’t. It’s just that the Carter family has the best lumber - he’s sure - in the whole state. They know everyone. It’s only natural that Peggy’d have spoken about her own boyfriend’s talent with someone in need, but the Udakus? He didn’t even know _she_ could reach that far - but he sure is glad she could. Maybe they have a servant who lives in the area...he’ll have to check up on that.

Steve swats him away playfully, shaking his head. “You know how they are.”

He nods. _Exactly._

“You deserve this, Steve,” he says happily before pulling open the door and looking around the currently empty restaurant. _Good_ , he thinks, almost feeling guilt though. It’s just that Angie cooks so much better when she isn’t stressed, and even fills the silence with a lively tune of her own from time to time, dreams of singing in an opera house not escaped. She’s not half-bad, too.

Bucky and Steve walk in, and surprisingly, Angie’s not straggling behind the counter. Probably morning preparations, he figures, and he and Steve grab a seat at a small circular table, ‘Carter’, proudly engraved into the table leg, marking the craftsmanship of one Amanda Carter. He eyes the brown moulding of the faded orange walls. The place is distinctly _homey_ , in a way no place else is. He’s glad this job isn’t sending the both of them across the country, being so close that Steve can even go alone while Bucky works from home.

A tapping rises from the tablecloth, a young woman’s bright face staring at both him and his companion across from him.

“How are you all doing this morning, boys?” Angie asks as a way of greeting, standing with her arms crossed in front of her apron covering the poofy, knee-length skirt she must have at least seven different versions of. A matching cap sits on her head, as always.

“Wonderful.” Steve answers as Bucky nods along to the sentiment, and she eyes him curiously, eyes trailing over the suit. She leans in, skirt hitting the table leg as a lone wisp of her auburn hair bends to gravity, swinging in front of her face. She pays it no mind, narrowing her eyes. “You trying to get someone’s attention, ‘Merica?”

Bucky snorts at that. The nickname stuck, after Steve had gotten a little too excited during history one time. It’s oddly fitting, Angie calling Peggy 'English' and her lover 'America'.

“In a way, yes,” he replies after a short laugh. “Going upstate in a little bit. Gonna be sitting with the wealthy for as long as they need me.”

She shifts her weight to the other leg, her skirt moving accordingly, tapping her nails on the table to a song he vaguely makes out.

Oh.

 _And...the...home..of...the...brave,_ he hears within each consecutive tap _._

When she finishes the jingle - always musical, that woman - she replies. “You really are on the make then, huh? Well then,” with a sly grin, “tell them to come around these parts soon.” She pulls the pocket lining out of her apron pocket and wiggles it before tucking it back in neatly and slipping away from the table. 

She narrows in on the both of them from a few feet away, “I’ll take your orders now! You don’t wanna be late now, do you?”

They end up taking their usual, cornbread, boiled eggs, and a patriotic - though limited - sip of coffee. It’s quick and filling, and they’re gone by the hour (though Bucky had to remind Steve to hurry a bit so that he doesn't end up playing hooky). It’s busier in the street now, more folks coming outside to start their day; riding horses, bikes, and the occasional - though rare - carriage. Steve’s will arrive any minute now, so they hurry down the lane, taking the shortcut through the alley to find the backdoor to their apartment.

They take the short flight of stairs, passing a few men along the way as they head back to their flat. A game of cards is being played on the fourth flight, which the two friends are successfully, though tediously able to dodge everyone they fly back up the stairs, fetching more luggage to take to the floor level before they put it outside. 

Through the bustle of the street rolls in a horse-drawn carriage, pulled by their good friend Edwin. The click-clacking on cobblestone gets near enough that Bucky's considering hushed goodbyes. He takes his hands out of his too-small coat pockets and motions toward the bags for Steve to let up one. He gives him his personal satchel as the four separate canvas boxes are slung haphazardly on his back. If it'd been judt five years ago, Bucky would be presently wondering if the weight would crush the man.

But it isn't. It's here, and now, and the distant "ca-caw"-ing of early morning birds in pale sunlight. Bucky thinks about how this moment would look in painting form, two silhouettes in front of the yet-rising sun as birds flock in the distance.

“Thanks Buck.’

He nods, just as horses trot in front of them, a clear path on the street now. Rusted wheels squeak on stone as they come to a halt.

Bucky checks his watch. "7 a.m. exactly. You'd think the fella's a machine." They botb laugh mirthfully.

"Well...looks time for me to clear out." Steve says quickly, feet moving him toward the back of the carriage where Bucky follows. They set his numerous bags and boxes in the wagon, setting the canvasses in specific places so that they have no chance of moving during the ride.

“Take care of Pegs for me, okay?” Steve says, turning to him distinctly. 

Bucky gives him a somber smile, promising to take care of and watch over the mentioned woman with an over-enthusiastic, “Will do, Captain!” before Steve sits inside the carriage.

The last Bucky sees of the carriage is when it turns over the slope in the road, and disappears down the main street. Bucky decides to head inside after that, taking off is coat as the sun takes its place high in the sky, and the slight warmth of mid-Summer reaches Brooklyn.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading till the end! This is a planned series with three more parts, and "Build" is to have upwards of four chapters.


End file.
